Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward. You must not, however, accompany me, Jack. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. He had an objective now.
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